


Crowley and Aziraphale Find the Clitoris

by raisedbymoogles



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Exploration, F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wonders what's really different about the female of the species, and drags Aziraphale along on his voyage of discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowley and Aziraphale Find the Clitoris

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote this a long time ago and unfortunately back then I was still kiiiiiiind of conflating gender and genitalia? So there is some "pronoun-change tied to junk-change" in this fic that is disrespectful to my trans & nonbinary readers. I don't want to delete or edit because I don't like the idea of hiding my past mistakes, but here is a note to acknowledge and apologize for my fuckup. Cis readers, learn from me and do not do the thing I did.

Demons, like angels, had no gender most of the time. Not that Hell frowned upon those particular accoutrements, in the line of duty of course. The wide variety of things Heaven forbade as regards to what you could _do_ down there, and the even wider variety of terrible, wicked things humans could inflict on each other with them or because of having the wrong set of them, made them incredibly useful for Hell's purposes. It's just that you were expected to tuck it away when you weren't using it. Terribly native of you to go around flapping between the legs all the time, you know, old chap. Not quite cricket.

It was Rennaissance Italy, cricket hadn't been invented yet, and Crowley was flapping between the legs as a matter of curiosity, running his slender, feminine hand through a thatch of dark curls into folds of flesh between fashionably plump thighs. He'd never bought into the 'women are inferior' thing that got bandied about whenever some male was feeling a bit like throwing a wobbly - in his experience, most women were exactly as smart, as stupid, as wicked, and as gracious as most men, and went about doing exactly what they wanted regardless of what some theoretically celibate man in a silly hat might think. But there'd been some noise lately about womens' Gardens of Eden, whether they were just the inversion of male Swords of Gideon or a different creature entirely. And Crowley, who'd been hanging about more or less since the beginning, couldn't help but wonder what was so mysterious about the female creature that they hadn't sorted it all out yet. So he thought he'd see for himself.

Crowley knelt with a mirror between his legs, one arm folded over an ample bosom - added for completeness's sake - and the other mapping the topographical features of his nether regions. There was a definite line where squishy, somewhat hairy skin turned into slick, wrinkled membrane, and inward from there, things got - complicated. Interesting, from a skin-prickling, sweat-inducing, tingly-feelings standpoint, but complicated. And the light was all wrong - all he could see in the mirror was a blob of shadow that resolved itself into thighs.

"I need an extra pair of hands," he muttered.

Fortunately, he knew where to get some.

***

Angels, like demons, had no gender most of the time. You were expected to keep yourself tucked away all the time - aside from the odd bestowing of religious ecstasy or the conception of this saint or that prophet (usually passed over for attention in favor of people afflicted with suitably dramatic mental illnesses or chemical addictions), Heaven tended to frown on the use of the flappy bits down there, and Aziraphale tried not to wonder too much why even _have_ the dratted things. It was like wondering why put that particular tree right there without so much as a fence around it. No use asking the question, it was just one of those things. Ineffable. Most of Aziraphale's business with the mysteries of the flesh involved keeping people from falling into temptation and other people's beds.

At least that's how it was supposed to happen. For all practical purposes, Aziraphale busied himself with more pressing sins - avarice, wrath, Doing Unto Others As You Wouldn't Want Done Unto You, and abuse of books - and let the nightclothes fall where they may, so to speak.

But there had been talk, and pamphlets written - all of which Aziraphale promptly collected - on the nature of the female genitals, and one day Aziraphale walked into his modest yet comfortable fire trap of a house (shame if something were to happen to it, said the local cloth merchant, who rather fancied the place as a new storage facility) and nearly got hit in the head with an exhausted and terrified pigeon.

He recognized where the bird had come from even before he read the message tied to its leg. Crowley had the fastest, prettiest messenger pigeons in the city. Also the most terrified.

He got the bird some seed and water and took his time reading the scrap of parchment to give the poor thing a bit of a rest. Then he took his time formulating a reply, because really, there was _no_ elegant way to respond to the demon's suggestion this time. He hemmed and hawed, wasted a few precious scraps of paper and half a bottle of ink, and right around sunset when the bird was starting to look anxious he gave up.

"Come on, then," he told it, "let's just see what this is all about."

***

Crowley opened his door to a strong-jawed young woman with startled eyes and a pigeon on her shoulder. He turned on the old Crowley charm out of habit, smiling through his long fringe - he had to grow his fringe out to hide his rather inhuman eyes, as sunglasses were still a long way off - and said, "Good evening, my lady. How may I be of service?"

"It's me, you pillock," the visitor said impatiently, and the pigeon, her duty discharged, disappeared in a flurry of feathers.

"Angel!" Crowley tugged him - her - _Aziraphale_ inside and tried to regain his composure. "I take it you're amenable."

"The way I look at it," Aziraphale said calmly, shedding her stole and folding it neatly, "it's research. I've got to _know_ these humans, inside and out, if I'm to guide them on the narrow path to glory."

"Quite." Crowley watched the angel, amused and increasingly Interested - he'd banished the breasts, finding them not worth the effort of manifestation, but kept the equipment between his legs and apparently that's where humans kept their base, lustful desires. Aziraphale was down to h- a pale cream shift, and Crowley watched with undisguised interest as it was removed.

"I can hear you avoiding pronouns from here," Aziraphale said, turning to Crowley in the full glory of God's creation. "Just call me she while I've got the equipment, will you? We can default back to he later."

"Yes, angel," Crowley murmured, and suddenly the boobs were back, unconcealed by an entirely non-regulation version of a nun's habit. Aziraphale spluttered.

"You're doing that on purpose!"

"Do you want me to take it off?"

Two apple-rosey spots appeared on Aziraphale's cheeks. "Yes."

Crowley obliged, making a show of it as her companion had, and tossed it in a careless pile on the floor. "How do you want me?" she purred, tilting a round, lush hip.

Aziraphale's throat visibly fluttered in a swallow. In contrast to Crowley's fashionably ample curves, the angel had built herself like an Amazon, with small breasts and hard muscle, though her belly and thighs could be seen to jiggle a bit as she turned to look into the room. "On the lounging couch," she mused, "on your back. Do you have a hand mirror? Ah, never mind, I see it..."

Crowley was more than happy to be pushed around a bit, and in short order was sprawled on the lounging couch, her upper torso propped up with pillows so she could see the reflection of her Chamber of Secrets in the mirror Aziraphale held between her spread legs. "I still can't see much of anything," she grumbled.

In answer, Aziraphale used a cheap angel trick, and glowed. Literally glowed, the light a soft and holy gold. Crowley spat out a blessing and shielded her eyes. "Warn a body before you-!"

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, and she sounded properly contrite, so Crowley lowered her hand and let her eyes get used to the light. Once she'd adjusted, she discovered she could see more detail of her innermost places, the folds of skin revealed to be - well, folds of skin, really, and she tried not to look disappointed as Aziraphale propped the mirror against her thigh and parted them.

"Ah," Aziraphale murmured. "That's where it goes."

"Yes, angel, we know there's a hole," Crowley sighed. "Anything else?"

A feminine finger, gentle but not quite delicate, stroked along the inside of the folds. "There's two sets of these," Aziraphale reported quietly, "one inside the other. Like - like one oyster inside another oyster."

"Very poetic."

"Not really. I don't think I've got the hang of poetry yet." Crowley rolled her eyes heavenward - and then hastily hellward, resulting in a touch of eyestrain. She closed her eyes to rest them as Aziraphale continued. "I wonder if those flaps are protective - not much use against callow young lords and the like, but against infection maybe - hello, who are you?"

"Who is-" Crowley started to stay, but then the side of Aziraphale's thumb rubbed firmly against something very, very important in Crowley's feminine anatomy and for a fraction of an instant she saw the face of God.

"-izzaGLEEPflzble!"

Aziraphale jumped back in shock. "What was that?"

Crowley lunged forward and grabbed the angel's wrist, shoving it back between her legs. "I don't know, but do it again!"

Aziraphale made a rather undignified noise of her own, but obligingly rubbed again. Crowley groaned. "No, that's the wrong bit! Closer to the middle and up top - not that high - closer - down a bit - yes, that's the spo-OOOHSFBLIBBLEFWOO!"

This time she saw God's face close enough to count his wrinkles. He was grinning.

"...The cushion's wet," Aziraphale reported, nonplussed, as Crowley came back to earth with a gentle bump.

"Hang the cushion," she said giddily. "I think we just found paradise on Earth. Another one, I mean. I wonder if they know about this."

"Heaven?" Aziraphale asked worriedly.

"No, humans."

"I'm sure they must," the angel assured her with a pat to her thigh. "It's not that hard to find."

Crowley snorted her opinion of that as she struggled to a sitting position. "Well. I think we've discovered some significant new - er - discoveries. In the field of - things." Her normal eloquence had to be around here somewhere, probably in a blissed-out pile on the floor. "We should name it."

"It?"

"Our discovery! Our new territory!"

"Well, I'm not planting a flag _there."_

Crowley laughed and took Aziraphale by the shoulders, shaking her lightly. "Never change, angel. I don't care if we can't, you make an extra special effort not to. Here, lay back." She helped Aziraphale along with a light shove, and helped her further by grabbing her near leg and hauling it up and awkwardly over and around so that Aziraphale was the one with a supernatural being of the opposite persuasion between her spread legs this time.

"For scientific equiry?" Aziraphale asked, smiling at the ceiling.

"For religious enquiry," Crowley answered, parting the angel's (damper than expected) folds. "I want to know whose face you see when you come."


End file.
